I am painted into the night, / I was given the cell of death, / I am at odds with versions of myself. — fromCrab Fat Magazine

That I was such bravado. That I had gone and gone and gone by midnight somewhere. Where. That I deteriorated and was reborn. That I would take off my face and be sullen. That I could lie. That soon I would not have any love or desire left. A shell is my sadness. It is xenolith, protruding so, but I cannot extract it. — fromTarpaulin Sky

And the desk now / all pushed up into the corner / and oddly violated / put into that corner / tossed up at the wall / with all the light. — from Grimoire

Bloodgems I call it / these wound, all mine. / Fixing a crown to the head of death / and making it reign. — fromBad Pony

The eroticism of why, why, why; I come for the answer.Sanguine and absent; the necro dazzles in stories of heaven.Me I have no heaven; me I wander. Please come home.Please come home. Please visit me in the garden. Please come home.It is never full, my spirit engine. I fill of rabid rattles andtubes. I have become the blood between the cracks.I go to the pew for you, and for you, and you,and am strung up in the rafters. What holy, what wing. ​​— fromOcculum

I don’t drink of troughs; I am the perpetual thing; I am filled of daybreak; when I am light, I am watched through peepholes; someone always stops me; someone always snuffs the thing I am; someone always fucks an animal in the garden; someone always bleeds the women out — fromDreginald